The War of Tomorrow
by alowlypotato
Summary: Post-FN; I'm sorry, but I don't think that I'll be continuing this. Writing fic for this series was fun, but I've simply lost my drive. Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed my stuff.
1. One

A/N (aka backround info you really didn't need): This story is EPIC, man! Like, seriously! I actually had most of the ideas for it over a year ago, shortly after the end of season two, but I didn't get up the nerve to start writing it until just recently. Why? Because it's extensive. And epic. Really epic. So...yeah. This is probably gonna be long, kids. Quite long. Know this and prosper!  
  
Now, on another note, I am aware that in recent times, ff.net has gotten a little...hostile, if I may say so. I don't mind constructive criticism; in fact, I welcome it, but I do not welcome what I like to call "crusading," as in people saying I'm not really M/L unless I do such and such a thing or that I'm trying to trick everybody or that I need to take so-and-so out of my story or blahdy blah. You can do that if you wish, but if you're going to, at least do the dignified thing and leave your email. Otherwise, expect to be ignored. :)  
  
And now, on with the show.  
  
Obligatory Disclaimer Thingy: I don't own 'em. Well, except for the characters I made up. They're mine. But everybody else, sadly, belongs to Fox. Grr! Meep.  
  
*******  
  
Clemente tapped his fingers on the dingy, grime-smeared table in front of which he sat, steadily watching the face of the girl who sat opposite from him, nervous and almost fearful in spite of himself. She was immensely powerful, and he knew it. He had seen some of what she could do and had seen the ease with which she seemed able to command the others of her kind, and was thusly apprehensive about making any move that could, on her end, be construed as offensive. However, at the same time, he knew that if she thought it best to kill him, it would be as a last resort - the consequences for the others like her would be too great if she attacked him on a mere whim. That was the other thing about her; she was intelligent and aware, and rather than being cold and cruel like the anti-transgenic propaganda might have one believe, she seemed warm, even altruistic. He admitted begrudgingly to himself that he had developed some amount of respect for her.  
  
Currently, she was nodding and scribbling something in a beaten and wrinkled notebook that looked as if it had been lifted from a trash can. She then unceremoniously dropped the pencil that she had been using and leaned back against her chair, sighing heavily.  
  
"Well, Chief," she said after a pause that, to him, seemed to go on for far too many eternities, "I can't say that I'm happy with all of it, but...if that's the best you can do, I guess I'm gonna have to agree to it."  
  
Clemente leaned toward her, slowly, so as not to appear threatening. "Look, Ms. Guevara..."  
  
She smiled with amusement. "I've told you, just call me Max."  
  
His upper lip curved as if he might allow himself to smile at that statement, but he didn't. "Fine, /Max./ I want this all to be over with as much as you do. I mean, with most of my force concentrated in this area, a lot of street criminals in the city are taking the opportunity to get away with things that they otherwise wouldn't be able to. I'd like to be able to clean up that mess, but unfortunately, I'm currently under a lot of pressure to do something about this whole transgenic situation. A lot of people are afraid, a lot more afraid of you than some petty thief picking pockets and mugging old ladies."  
  
"I understand that," Max responded calmly. "But, like you have to protect your people, I have to protect mine. Really, I think having guards around all the time will just make people more paranoid. Think about it; if the police think it's okay to leave us alone, that'll say something."  
  
"You must realize, Ms. Gue...Max, that the guards wouldn't be there just to protect outsiders. They would also be there to protect you, to stop people from getting in."  
  
She chuckled slightly at that. "People don't wanna get in anyway, Clemente. Before this all started, they stood outside the gates and threw things, thinking that was gonna do something. They wouldn't dare actually come in. They're too scared."  
  
Clemente clicked his tongue, mulling this over for a few moments and realizing that she was, indeed, correct. The human citizens of Seattle weren't exactly clambering to get beyond the gates of Terminal City. Still, it didn't seem smart not to have at least some measure of security in the area, keeping things under control. "That's a very good point, but in the event that something gets out of hand, I just think that it would be a good idea to have some of my force nearby at all times. It's not like they'll be interfering with any of you. As we've discussed, you're going to basically be able to go about your business, as long as you stay in and around Terminal City. We just want to make sure things stay nice and peaceful."  
  
"That makes sense, I guess. I mean, it's not like I expected you to even give us this much leeway..." Her brow furrowed and she sat upright in her chair, folding her arms across the table. "Why /are/ you giving us this much leg room, anyway?"  
  
"Honestly, it's because I want to see this settled as quickly and quietly as possible," Clemente admitted. "We've had casualties the past two weeks and while some think that this means that we should crack down harder, I see tightening the rope as only making things worse. You're more powerful than us, all of you, I know that. I won't lie to you; it scares me. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm taking this route. I'm /scared/ of what your kind might do if we push too hard. Basically, what I'm aiming to do with all of this is settle things enough for now so that neither my people nor yours are in danger at the moment, and so I can buy us some time to figure out how to handle the situation."  
  
"I hate to be crude, /sir/," ejected Max sternly, "but does that mean that, once you figure out how to get rid of us, this agreement isn't going to mean anything?"  
  
He gulped and shied away from her, berating himself for not better choosing his words. "No. I just meant that it's a temporary thing until we can work out a more permanent solution. I don't think trying to wipe you people out is the answer. Like I said, it seems to me that pushing harder would only make things worse."  
  
Max's vision fell to the surface of the table as she deliberated over what had been said. She was far from ready to completely trust Clemente, and she didn't quite believe his assertion that he wasn't for permanently removing transgenics from society. After all, there were few out there who hadn't taken that view, and most of those individuals were simply loyal friends and acquaintances of Max. She was wary of anyone, especially a law enforcement official, who seemed to be taking a balanced stance on the issue. However, she was at her wit's end at this point in regards to the siege and wanted nothing more than to put an end to it, preferably in as peaceful and mutually beneficial a way as possible. Mole had suggested that they simply rush out and blow away every human in sight, but Max knew that it was not wise to fuel anti-transgenic sentiment at this point in time and so had been desperately seeking a solution that would put she and her kind in a slightly more positive light. This was the only one that had readily presented itself, and if she didn't take it, who knew when another opportunity would come around?  
  
"All right," she agreed finally, emitting a shallow and almost imperceptible sigh. "I'll go along with it. But I want the guards to be /in the area,/ not right outside the gates, and I want for us to be able to contact them if we need to."  
  
"Define 'in the area,'" Clemente insisted.  
  
"Stationed nearby," she clarified. "Not really hanging around here, but ready to respond if something happens. I will make sure my people are clear on using violence only as a last resort, you make sure yours keep outta our business unless we want them here."  
  
It was Clemente's turn to let his vision fall to the table. He felt his stomach churning with turmoil and indecision, his skin tingling with trepidation. In all honesty, he didn't think that Max's proposal was good enough, that the citizens of the city would be willing to accept such a deal, one which would surely seem to be favoring the "rights" of transgenics over the "rights" of humans. Would they see him as unfit to serve as their police chief, accuse him of not providing them with adequate protection against the dangerous mutants that they so feared and hated? Would his own force turn against him, find some way to usurp his position and wind up charging unabashedly into Terminal City and breaking the agreement, thereby ensuring an onslaught of violence by an angry mob of betrayed transgens? It was quite possible for both imagined scenarios to transform into reality, and he was afraid of what would happen if either did. But he was also afraid that if he didn't strike some sort of agreement right now, tensions might rise to unbearable levels, patience on both sides might be lost and a cold, bloody battle might break out anyway. He considered that perhaps eventual violence was unavoidable, and decided that his best course of action was to prolong its occurrence for as long as possible.  
  
"Very well," he conceded at last. "After I assign a team to the area, I'll get you a radio and give you each of the officers' transmissions."  
  
Max smiled and nodded. "Good."  
  
Clemente forced a returning smile and a moment of silence passed between them before he tentatively extended a hand over the table. Max took it with more confidence than with which he had offered it, not because she felt any less guarded than he, but because she knew how to keep from telecasting such feelings. The two shook firmly, retaining eye contact the entire time and praying that more good than bad would come from the peace agreement upon which they had just settled.  
  
*******  
  
"How's it coming?" Logan asked, pulling up a chair beside Dix. The transhuman was furiously typing code into an old, obsolete computer. It was a bit slower than what he was used to, but it did the trick and that was all that mattered in this place.  
  
"Actually, I...I'm not working on the virus," Dix admitted, hanging his head slightly. Even as he displayed his remorse, however, he never missed a beat in regards to the computer, obviously quite absorbed in whatever project on which he was currently working.  
  
A wave of irritation passed through Logan but he stifled it, knowing that behaving crossly would not get him anywhere. He was quite surprised that Dix had agreed to help him at all, and even if the guy hadn't been able to get around to working on it just yet, Logan didn't want to jeopardize the fact that he was willing to try. "Why not? The antigen keeping you busy?"  
  
Dix continued to type, his fingers flying effortlessly across the keyboard. Despite the fact that, on the whole, he was considered to be an anomaly, his incredible intelligence had set him apart from many of the others and Manticore had decided that it would be worthwhile to train him as a lab tech. In such a position, he wouldn't be required to fight, but he would at least be doing something useful and actively serving the project instead of simply taking up space in the basement. He was not alone, either; many others had been like him, more than Max and her fellow X-series could have imagined. Manticore didn't like to waste their creations, so they attempted to find purposes for the less troublesome of the anomalies.   
  
"Nah, it's not that," Dix began. "We have plenty of the serum, and from what I hear about Max striking a deal with the chief of police, it doesn't matter anyway cuz you and the other two ordinaries are probably gonna be able to get out of here pretty soon. That is, if she manages to reach some kind of agreement with the guy. But, anyway, I haven't been able to get her to give up any of her blood. She was convinced that it would accidentally be given to you."  
  
"Did you tell her that I don't need as much as Sketchy and Original Cindy?" Logan asked with a sigh.  
  
Dix turned his head toward his companion at that, his face communicating that he thought such an inquiry to be silly and superfluous. "Of course I did," he replied matter-of-factly. "She'd already sort of figured that out, you know, cuz of Joshua's transfusion and all. But she was still freaked out about it. Said something like, 'any chance at all is a chance I don't wanna take.'"  
  
Logan chuckled inwardly. It was a decidedly Max thing to say, filled to the brim with her unique brand of insecurity and sometimes neurotic worry. He found himself thinking that such was adorable but abruptly pulled himself from the clouds, focusing on the present and the stark reality that surrounded him. He wasn't even sure at the moment that he would still be able to get her back; it would do him well to refrain from entertaining any overtly romantic notions at the moment.   
  
"Hey, why don't you just talk to her about all of this?" asked Dix after Logan offered no response to his explanation. "It'd be a hell of a lot easier to get her to participate if she knew the name of the game."  
  
Logan cringed. "She's...not really talking to me very much right now."  
  
For the first time, Dix ceased his typing and presented Logan with his complete attention. "Well, god, no wonder it's been so hard to get her to give anything up. What's going on?"  
  
The human rose from his seat and began to pace nearby, folding his arms across his chest, his back to the anomaly. "I'm not even sure. I thought things were going well the first couple of days after we got here, but...now it seems like it's her mission to avoid me. Still scared, I guess. Or maybe..." He sighed. "Forget it."  
  
"No, what?"  
  
"You know Alec," he stated, turning back around to face his companion. "Well, Max sort of...she said, in so many words, that she was seeing him. I thought I'd let her go if that's what it took to make her happy, but...then things just starting going so well again. I thought we were really getting better. That is, until she decided to stop talking to me." He walked back over to the chair and took his seat again, leaning on his knees. "I guess I thought if I could get the virus out of the way, that would be the clincher."  
  
"So this is all about getting her back, huh?" Dix questioned, smiling slightly.   
  
"Well, even if I can't get her back, it'd sure be nice to be able to walk by her without thinking I might die."  
  
Dix chuckled, pleased that Logan could find at least a little bit of humor in so dire a situation. It seemed a bit forced, as the man was quite obviously the serious type, but it was still welcome. He patted the ordinary on the shoulder with friendly vigor. "Well then it's a noble cause, for sure."   
  
At that, the door creaked open slightly, drawing the attention of the two men. Through the small opening between door and wall poked Alec's head, his eyes lighting up when he caught sight of the human and anomaly.   
  
"Ah, Logan, there you are," Alec exclaimed. Logan raised an eyebrow. "Some X8s were fiddling with some of our security equipment and kinda busted it, so we were wondering if you could maybe, you know, do your whole technological thing and help us fix it up."  
  
"Don't you guys have training for that kind of stuff?" asked Logan, clearly confused as to why a bunch of genetically engineered beings needed his help with something of the sort.  
  
"Not everyone. And there's really not that many people around right now who have specific training in that area," explained Alec. His eyes shifted and he bit his bottom lip, clearly thinking things over. "I mean, if you're busy or something right now... Or, you know, you're a tech, aren't ya, Dix?"  
  
"Uh, lab tech," Dix clarified. "My specialty's in cracking genetic code, not programming computers."  
  
"It's all right, anyway. I'll do it," interjected Logan, rising from his seat.  
  
"Aw, thanks. You're a good guy, Logan. A real humanitarian," Alec quipped. "Or...transgenicatarian... Well, whatever, I appreciate it."  
  
Logan grinned and began to move toward the younger man, ignoring the volatile pangs of jealousy that he felt cropping up in the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to be Alec's enemy; despite the fact that he longed for Max's affection, she had the right to choose her own path and if the path she took wound up leading to Alec in the end, that was something that he was going to have to accept. He had learned much about controlling his temper in the past year and a half and he knew that this situation was one of those that would not be made better by anger and bitterness, as painful as it was and as much as he wanted to give into those feelings. Entirely counterproductive, they were.  
  
Before he could move more than a few feet, Dix grabbed his elbow, forcing him to momentarily turn back toward the transhuman.  
  
"Don't worry; I'll get her to give up some DNA somehow," the anomaly said quietly.  
  
Logan smiled, not only as a result of the hope given him by such a promise, but as a result of the fact that he seemed to be steadily building a decent friendship with this individual. "Thanks a lot, Dix," he said gratefully before joining Alec, his words carrying a double meaning.  
  
*******  
  
The flicker of a match briefly illuminated the corner of the dark room, moving upward with calculated grace to light the end of a cheap cigar. Mole coughed, shifting slightly on the box on which he currently sat, taking the stogie from his mouth and twisting it idly in his fingers, as if carefully studying it. It wasn't on par with what he was used to; it didn't have the same taste or texture, and instead of feeling a sense of calm as he usually did, he felt as if he had just inhaled a few lungs worth of sulfur.  
  
"This cigar is crap," he complained, although he slid the end back into his mouth and began slowly smoking it.  
  
A man who could pass for the younger version of Mole slid off of his own box and took a few steps toward the older anomaly, sighing in aggravation. "It's the best anyone could do, Mole," he insisted. "Cops are everywhere and Max won't let us..."  
  
"...kill any of them," Mole finished for the man as he took another puff. "I know, Norse. I know all about her sensitive, pseudo-compassionate bullshit. And, hell, this is one more reason not to wanna take it."  
  
From the shadows emerged another anomaly, this one a female who had obviously gotten a bit too much cat spliced into her DNA. For the most part, her face appeared human, but the long, tapered ears that poked through her charcoal hair and the menacing incisors that prevented her from fully closing her mouth gave her away. "She might have a point, though," the girl interjected. "If we show we're not so bad, maybe the ordinaries'll start to come around."  
  
Mole laughed bitterly and rose to a standing position, slowly making his way toward the cat anomaly. "C'mon, Lace, you don't actually think that'll happen, do ya? It doesn't matter how cute and cuddly we act, they're still gonna hate us. And even if they don't, I'm still gonna hate them. A lot of others are, too. That's the thing Max doesn't seem to realize - some of us don't wanna coexist. We wanna be without them, without their laughable weaknesses and ignorant fears... It's not like we could ever really be a part of their society even if we wanted to. Look at us, we're freaks. There's no denying that. We might as well accept it and deal with it instead of trying to shove it under the rug like Little Miss Fearless Leader seems to wanna do. She's just spent so much time outside she's forgotten who she is, and we don't need someone like that running things."  
  
The others in the room fidgeted uncomfortably, folding arms, tapping fingers on elbows and shifting weight from one foot to the other. Deep down, each of them felt the way Mole did, that Max's vision of lasting peace between transgenics and humans was too optimistic for anyone's good, that it was just a silly fantasy bred of her attachment to her ordinary friends. She also seemed relatively uncertain, even as she asserted herself and took charge, laying down rules and regulations seemingly without regard for the opinion of the people over whom she was ruling. There were rumors that she was somehow special, somehow more powerful than anyone in Terminal City and anyone who had ever lived, and many used that as partial justification for supporting her and letting her get away with whatever restrictions she felt like enforcing. However, even if she was the epitome of Manticore perfection, that did not automatically make her a good leader, and quite a few were beginning to dissent, to cross to the other, less human-friendly side of the fence. This was a war, and they wanted to fight it instead of behaving like sitting ducks. Besides, why should anyone have to compromise him or herself simply to appease a species that was so underdeveloped and contemptible?  
  
Mole stopped a few feet from Lace and looked over his companions, from her to Norse to the most confounding of the anomalies present, a boy with striking white eyes and a slightly deformed head who had taken the name "Rally." Mole was looked up to by the three of them, and he knew it. They tested him sometimes, as Lace had done with her suggestion that Max might be correct in her methods, but it was more to show off than anything else, to display their intelligence and pray that he might be impressed. Truly, they felt that he more represented them then did the willful X5, and it was him to whom they could most relate and him to whom they went if they had a problem. It certainly had a bit to do with the fact that he was more like them than Max; she looked so human that to be around her was often a painful reminder of the persecution that was faced by everyone within the gates of this toxic wasteland. It also made it more difficult to accept her ideals and proposals, as she didn't seem to realize that, while it was quite easy for her to relate to ordinaries, such was far more difficult for the more exotic fruits of Manticore's labor. She was out of touch. Many were beginning to come to that conclusion and Mole fully intended to exploit it.  
  
"I know it's crossed all your minds," Mole finally said after a few moments of intense silence. "You don't wanna put up with her anymore than I do. She's gonna get us in trouble, ya hear? She's too much of a damned softy. And let me tell you, throwing flowers and dreams of equality at a bunch of people armed with guns and hatred never did nobody any good."  
  
His three followers cast their vision toward their feet and nodded slowly, at this point so taken with him that they were fully prepared to do whatever he wanted. "So whadaya think we should do, Mole?" asked Norse softly, his eyes shifting upward to capture those of his role model.  
  
Mole paused momentarily, chewing lewdly on the end of his cigar, then turned and began making his way back toward his crate. "I haven't worked out all the details yet," he replied. "For now, all we can really do is get together people who feel the same way and see about coming up with a game plan, figuring out how we can knock /X5-452/ off her high horse. One way or another, things have gotta change. I ain't standing around to let her screw things up more than they already are."  
  
Rally stepped forward, wringing his hands together, a nervous habit that he seemed unable to stop. "You think someday, you'll be in command, Mole?"  
  
Mole grinned; it wasn't often that he was happy unless things went his way, so naturally he had entertained the thought of being Terminal City's leader. However, the fact that another had now voiced the idea made him take the possibility far more seriously. "Who knows?" he answered. "We can only hope." 


	2. Two

Her instinct was to wriggle against the chains currently binding her to the wall and attempt to escape, but her sense of duty prevented her from doing so, prevented her from acting out or even attempting to make a case for herself. She was far too proud of her heritage to protest, far too dignified to express to the elders that she considered her punishment to be too severe. She would not accept that the failure of the attack was so much her fault; she had been told that it would be routine, and all of her training and education had led her to believe that she and her kind were the most powerful beings on earth, that nothing could stop them, /nothing./ As such, she hadn't expected the transgenics to be so adept at defending themselves, and although she knew that her cockiness had probably been her group's downfall, she still assigned most of the blame for the disaster at JamPony to her teachers. After all, they were the ones who had sown the seeds of over-confidence.  
  
Nonetheless, she did not struggle and would not offer so much as a whimper of disapproval when her time came. If this was to be her fate, then so be it. For love of the Conclave, love of the entire Familiar race, she would accept her slated execution, perhaps even welcome it. The elders were wise and had climbed the ranks for a reason, and who was she to go against them, even when she believed that they might be going overboard? Such beliefs were probably just a byproduct of her instinctive will to survive, anyway. The Coming was fast approaching, the virus was almost ready and she understood the precautions being taken and the reasons behind the new and more strict approach to protocol. Even if she didn't, her life was the cult, and she felt it her responsibility to give it up for them by any means they deemed necessary.  
  
Presently, two High Priestesses of the Conclave entered the room where Thula was being held, dressed in the robes of ritual and brandishing curved knives and ornate, silver cups. One of them carried a single snake, and with it held high above her head, she approached the former leader of the Phalanx and began chanting a deep, mournful melody. It was recognizable as the customary blessing for the dead, commonly used at Familiar burial ceremonies, with a few lines modified to speak specifically to the practice of execution. Behind her, the other Priestess dipped the blades of the knives ceremoniously into the cups, bowing her head and reciting a few words before laying them nearby on a burgundy cloth. Thula gulped, realizing at once the method with which she would be executed, and frightened by the prospect that, for the first and last time in her life, she would have to experience pain. She vaguely recalled the sensation from when she was a child, before she had completed the rite of passage and officially entered the ranks of the Familiars, but it was so terribly long ago... She knew only that it was horribly unpleasant, and could not fathom how to go about dealing with it, how to handle such an intensely distasteful feeling. The only thing that comforted her was the knowledge that she would not have to suffer it for long.  
  
The snake was taken away, folded neatly into a black, velvet sack, and each Priestess took a knife before slowly making her way to the convicted, their graceful movements and impossibly long garments causing them to appear to be gliding across the polished stone bricks of the floor rather than walking. One positioned herself behind the other, and the one currently facing Thula raised her blade above her head, calling out a final prayer before pushing the weapon deep into the girl's stomach. At first, nothing substantial was felt; there was only the familiar pressure and the knowledge that she had been wounded. As the fast-acting poison seeped through her body, however, an ache that she had never known consumed her, acidly shooting through her veins and forcing a series of mangled cries past her lips. It was more terrible then she ever could have imagined, and what distressed her most of all was that, having never experienced a sensation of this sort before, she had no way to describe it to herself. She thought that it was as if her very senses had turned against her, as if the chemicals in her body had turned sour and curdled like spoiled milk, as if everything that ever was meant nothing because right now things were so horribly wrong, worse than worst.  
  
As she cried and twitched under the ministrations of her new painful consciousness, the first Priestess moved silently out of the way and made room for the second, who followed suit by lifting her knife above her head and calling out a word or two. When she had done with that, she rested the tip of the blade against Thula's chest, directly in line with the girl's heart.  
  
"For our children's children, and our mothers before us," the Priestess recited. "Fenos'tol, Thula."  
  
"F...fenos'tol," Thula replied meekly. With that, the knife was shoved through her heart, and with a final cry, she fell limp against her binds and drifted off into eternity.  
  
*******  
  
Thula's voice wafted through the corridors of the building, serving as concrete evidence of the pain faced by those who were executed. While a few of the elders seated in front of him cracked a smile at the sound, Ames White only grimaced, now fearing his sentencing even more. He had been found grossly incompetent, as so many others were being found nowadays, and the Committee of Elders had expressed to him that the Conclave was tired of his mishandling of the transgenic operation and intended to prevent him from ever working on that particular project again. He knew that they were considering sentencing him to death; they had become incredibly strict in recent months and were making very good examples of those whom they determined to be less than worthy. He had tried to remain optimistic throughout the trial, hoping against hope that he would simply be knocked down a few levels and relegated to the completion of routine missions, but Thula's cries put him precariously on edge and made vanish all thoughts of coming out of this with his life intact.  
  
Orin, the head elder, cleared his throat forcefully, held his head high in a posture of arrogance and peered down at White over the bridge of his nose. "We have given you more than enough chances, Ames. Time and time again, we have overlooked your mistakes and allowed you to continue operating. However, we only have so much patience. You failed to prevent the capture of your son and then failed to return him; you failed to keep your brother locked up and in his rightful place; you failed to exterminate X5-452 and her compatriots, on more than one occasion. How many times did you think we'd allow you to botch your duties before we grew tired of your careless mistakes, Ames? Did you think that you were getting a free ride, that this was some sort of dodge or hustle?"  
  
"No, sir," White replied, his mind reeling. It was true that he had had his share of mishaps, but the elders didn't seem to understand his predicament. He had been given very limited resources, and 452 was more cunning and powerful than the Conclave seemed to realize. It also did not bode well for his authorities that their precious Phalanx had failed just as miserably as he. So horrendous was their failure, in fact, that the entire group had been disbanded, some of its members, like Thula, sentenced to execution, others knocked back into the civilian ranks. A new army was being raised from the ashes, but his bitterness, combined with that which he had seen in the past few weeks, led White to believe that such would be no more capable than its predecessor. The Conclave simply didn't /get it/, and it was pathetic as far as he was concerned. But, apprehensive as he was about winding up like Thula, he knew that he had no choice but to play their game.  
  
"I have always fully understood my responsibilities, and I have tried my best to take care of them. My respect for the Conclave and for all Familiars is of the utmost, you must know," muttered White, his voice convincingly sincere. "But 452 has proven herself to be more of a problem than it was at first thought she would be. If I were given a little more leeway, a little more help..."  
  
Orin chuckled. "Don't take me for a fool, Ames. We've given you more leeway than you've shown you can handle, and you've done depressingly little with it." He glanced down at the mahogany table in front of him, then looked from his left to his right, signaling to the other elders that he had made his decision. White gulped, twitching as a bead of nerve-induced sweat slipped down his forehead and off the end of his nose. He stifled his desire to wipe the back of his hand across his brow, more interested in appearing the picture of Familiar propriety than in catering to his want for personal comfort.  
  
"As head elder of the Washington chapter of the honorable Conclave, I hereby motion to sentence Ames White to execution for his crimes against the Familiar order. His consistent mishandling of the operation to which he was assigned and his incompetence in dealing with the transgenic threat have quite likely put our kind in danger, especially with the Coming so close to its inception. We will not tolerate such disrespect, intended or otherwise - not in these important times." Orin wrapped his fingers around the handle of his gavel and held it, poised and ready, over the block that resided just to the left of the small microphone into which he'd been speaking. "If there be any dissent among the rest of the Committee, please explain your position on the matter at this time."   
  
After a few moments of intolerable silence, the gavel fell to the block and the world fell into a surreal facsimile of itself, spinning and tumbling and rendering White pale and nauseous. He barely felt the strong hands closing around his upper arms, pulling him from where he stood, angry and dumbfounded and more frightened than he thought he had ever been in his life. It wasn't death that he feared so much as the method with which he would be killed, a method that he knew would be painful, partly, of course, from the screams of the recently deceased and partly from his knowledge that it was considered the ultimate punishment to force a Familiar to feel the awful sensation that had been trained and bred out of him. It was a feeling to which he was quite content to be immune and there was nothing quite so disheartening as the thought that such immunity would be stripped away.  
  
The halls through which he was led seemed darker and more foreboding than they ever had. In better days, he had actually found them comforting, a reminder of what he was and how delightfully solid and ancient was his heritage. Now, the walls seemed to be bearing down on him, closing in, inexplicably shouting threats and insults, and the intoxicating adrenaline currently flooding his senses only made his imaginings more intense, more like wild hallucinations, more like demons manifest. How had he possibly managed to get himself into this mess? How could this be happening to him, after all his years of hard work, all his years of loyalty? He had sacrificed friends for them, killed his wife for them, gone on a wild goose chase and tracked a girl who just wouldn't be caught for them. And what was his reward? Death, pain, a world gone topsy-turvy.  
  
A new but familiar emotion now bubbled through him, asserting itself over his overbearing fear. A part of him knew that he shouldn't be, that even now he should respect the decisions of those above him, but he was angry, desperately angry, to a point beyond the realm of rational thought. It was not he who had let them down, no. It was they who had let /him/ down, they who had turned against /him/. His mistakes were far from being any form of betrayal, from even bordering on it. This sentence, however, borne of overreaction and an obvious detachment from the reality of the situation - /this/ was betrayal, of the worst sort.   
  
He found himself gazing longingly at the windows of the building, set high against the backdrop of stone and portrait. He could see the sky, blue and inviting, dotted by a cloud or two, and the tops of a few of the area's surrounding trees. It was then that he decided that he didn't have to stand for this, that if they were going to treat him as the treasonous criminal that he wasn't, he might as well turn the tables and show him just how much of a traitor he could be.  
  
In an instant, he was rolling his arms back against the grips of his two escorts, catching them completely off guard and freeing himself within seconds. A well-placed kick struck the side of the head of one of the men, causing him to fly back against the wall, the sickening crack that coincided with his landing serving as tell-tale evidence that he would be out of commission for the time-being. The other man managed to kick Ames in the back of the knees, sending him forward onto his palms. Another kick would have struck him in the back of the head, but he was fast enough to roll over and intercept the move, curling his fingers around the man's ankle and pushing him backwards. The escort quickly recovered and leapt toward his would-be captive, but White managed to bring up a knee and snugly fit it into the indentation at the bottom of his attacker's ribcage, forcing the man past him and head-first into the wall when he extended his leg.  
  
White leapt to his feet then, instinctively falling into attack posture, still wary of his opponent. However, the blood streaming from both the man's head and nose and pooling beside his face swiftly led White to the conclusion that he had effectively won this battle. To make sure, he knelt beside his incapacitated escort and checked the man's pulse, smirking when it faded away. This was dually the gift and the curse of being trained in elite circles. Sometimes, you forgot your strength and wound up killing your own kind.   
  
"Hey..." a groggy voice suddenly came from behind. White turned to see his other opponent slowly picking himself up off the ground, shaking his head and rapidly blinking his eyes. "Hey...what the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
Ames took off running at that, his legs taking him almost subconsciously toward the nearest exit, toward the nearest threshold to freedom. He glanced behind him every few seconds, checking to make sure that his former escort wasn't too close behind him, and during one of these instances he blindly tumbled into a decorative end table, clumsily falling over it and winding up dazed and sprawled awkwardly across the floor. He blinked once or twice to reorient himself, and when his vision cleared he found that he was looking across the hall into what appeared to be a classroom filled with adolescents, curiously staring at him through the door. It wasn't long before the High Priestess who served as their instructor also peered through the entranceway, her brow furrowing contemptibly when she took him in.  
  
"Aren't you supposed to be at trial?" she questioned. A sharp retort formed in his mind and he opened his mouth to spit it out, but at that moment the angry voice of the escort washed over him and he scrambled to his feet, taking off just as his pursuer rounded a corner about twenty yards away and enthusiastically picked up his pace at the sight of the fugitive.   
  
A fresh surge of trepidation coursed through White's veins, pushing him to the brink. The stakes were higher now, the goal far more dangerous to attain, and he knew it. There was no doubt in his mind that the High Priestess who had seen him would alert the elders and the guards to his current efforts to forego punishment. But he was so close, so excruciatingly close that he could taste it, that he could already breathe the air and feel the heat of the sun, so rare in its appearance. Only a few more corridors through which to bound, a few more corners around which to turn, a few more feet over which to run...  
  
He felt his lungs contract as he skid to a halt, the air leaving him as if he had just been slugged in the gut. In his path stood a line of guards who looked quite agitated, brandishing the daggers of ritual. He backed slowly away from them, then turned to run, but was unpleasantly greeted by the sight of the other man from whom he had been running for the past few minutes. He imagined that if it weren't for the strength of his ribcage, his heart would have burst through his chest at this point, completing the job of the executioners for them. Oh, the executioners... Seemed he'd be facing them after all.  
  
A heavy silence permeated the air, tense and deafening, broken only by the sound of the footsteps of the guards and the escort as they moved to make their capture. Bile rose in White's throat, bitter as the taste of defeat, the defeat that, momentarily, he accepted. But then, only nanoseconds before he was surrounded by the menacing arms of his fellow Familiars, a streak of final desperation sent him leaping up the nearest wall, pulling himself effortlessly up onto the sill of one of the windows. He dove through it, shards of glass slicing through his flesh and covering the side of the building with liquid evidence of his injuries; when later he dressed them, he'd be eternally grateful that he had saved himself from having to experience pain.  
  
He hit the ground hands first and tucked himself into a roll, climbing up onto his feet without missing a beat. He was jumping up and over the high walls of the building's perimeter soon after, thanking his gods for being so generous as to grant him this most insane of prayers. 


End file.
